Miles to go in the dead of night...three hour delay on the G. Washington bridge. Two and a half in the Lincoln tunnel. Headlights. Stoplights. I'll never make it in time.

If I could fly I could make up the time, but LaGuardia and Kennedy warn travelers to call well ahead for cancelled flights due to the weather. Perhaps I should have tried the train. Too late to change your mind now hot-shot. No more choices. Choice was a long time ago and you picked the easy way. Now you're screwed, you're surrounded by people who picked the same easy way, the sweat-free way. Now you can turn on CBS news and listen as the winners go by.

You should have started earlier. You should have stayed with it...you had a choice, didn't you? Everybody had the same choice, but, but... The bottle was open and it stood there on the table and who can leave a place like Hurley's when the bottle's still half full? ...certainly not you hot-shot.

You're not going anywhere tonight hot-shot... too many candles burned at both ends. As the saying goes, they burned with a lovely light didn't they?_________________We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.
Ernest Hemingway

I'm glad to see this and to see that the Voice is up and running again. ) Since I've already commented on this via e-mail, I won't repeat myself here, except to say once again, that I enjoyed it very much, though I find it sad. Very well-written, as always, my friend.

God bless,
Marlicia
with God all things are possible_________________Be patient with me. Like any good story, I'm a work in progress.

Here I am, LOL. I hope this makes sense. The piece I wrote to the prompt, actually went to 830 words and I don't think it's finished, so I apologize in advance. Thank you for taking a look. I appreciate it.

Rábkah stirred and gasped. Vice-like pain constricted her throat. Her hand fluttered to her neck, but met nothing solid. Who was talking? What were they doing in her head? Dizziness swept over her.

“Breathe, child. Relax and all will be well.”

Who are you? Rábkah forced herself to open her eyes. Pale light faded in and out of focus. “Where are you?” she rasped. “Show yourself.”

“You must take slow, deep breaths. When you have calmed, we will continue.”

We? How many are there?

“We are as many as we are. Now breathe.”

She breathed. In. Out. Slow and deep, the way the midwives told women in childbirth to breathe. Her dizziness faded. A gentle touch, that defied description passed along her neck. Her breathing eased and the pain disappeared. Her questions remained.

“That is better, is it not?”

Rábkah sat up, scooting back until she bumped against something rough and unyielding. Why can I feel the wall but not… she brought her fingers to her neck, but again, touched nothing solid. Why can’t I feel my body?

“It is only temporary. Feeling will return in time.”

Her skin crawled. “What are you doing in my head? Get out!”

“Then you will not know your options and will be unable to make a decision, for that is how we communicate. If you are unable, a decision will be made for you.”

“You only speak through thoughts?” Rábkah peered into the dimly lit cavern. The ghostly illumination gave way after a few feet to an inky darkness. “What decision? What are you talking about?”

“Such an impetuous child. I do not know what the Creator sees in her.”

“It is not for us to question her necessity.”

“But she is an uncertainty.”

“Yes.”

Rábkah slammed her hands against the hard ground, stirring up wisps of dust. “I’m right here you two, or three…Whoever, Whatever you are.”

“Most impatient,” one continued.

“Indeed, perhaps we should identify ourselves.”

“That might be nice. After all, I don’t have all day. I have to find someone.” Golden eyes flashed in the darkness outside the ring of light, two, maybe three or more pairs. Whoever they belonged to, must be huge. She swallowed her fears. “They might be in trouble.”

“They are not.”

She peered into the gloom. “How can you know that?”

“We know.” Two bird like creatures stepped out of the shadows to tower over her. “We are Gryphons.”

“You’re Guardians.” Rábkah bowed her head. “Forgive me.”

“You have been chosen.”

Her head snapped up. “To do what?”

“The Creator has not said, but He has offered you a choice, gifts to fulfill your destiny-- or complete your final journey.”

“I’ve died?” she whispered.

“Only if you refuse His gifts.”

“That’s not much of a choice.

“It is one that requires courage, but sometimes being strong and moving along is the only choice you have. Can you make it?_________________Be patient with me. Like any good story, I'm a work in progress.

Well I really do wish I could read the rest of the story. Your heroine knows these Gryphons and their Creator as well, and now we don't know what's going to happen to the poor creature next. But they've interrupted her search for someone who may be in trouble... I've got to read more, Marlicia, there's more to this than meets the eye. It's too good to miss._________________We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.
Ernest Hemingway

Thank you for taking the time to read and to comment on this for me--and for your words of encouragement. I really appreciate it as always. I'm glad you enjoyed this little piece. It's the latest installment of my Gifts of the Guardians Series (mostly fleshing out ideas and concepts at the moment). Rabkah is an interesting character, and probably one of my most conflicted. She's been given gifts from the Guardians, but no one knows if she'll use them for good or bad, (except the Creator, but he won't interfere or try to influence). The choice is hers. I'll try to post more of this story as prompts allow, though it may not always be the same character. Thank you again for your kind words. I really needed them.

God bless,
Marlicia
with God all things are possible_________________Be patient with me. Like any good story, I'm a work in progress.

It's strange how our response to prompts have developed. You seem to be drawn into a sample of something you are presently writing or have written before...almost as though the prompt comes from the story, rather than the other way around._________________We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.
Ernest Hemingway

I don't normally have the prompt come from the story, but I'm sure it has happened on occasion. Usually I pick something that looks interesting. I might have an idea of where I want to go with it, but not often. Sometimes I'll start with an idea and I'll draw a complete blank Other times something totally different will come out of the prompt. Several times I've had prompts hijacked by characters who haven't had enough attention or who are currently being worked with. I might also use prompts to flesh out characters or story-lines. I use the prompts as jumping off points, sort of sketchbook or thumbnail of at least part of what I want to get across. Hmm...I'm not sure I'm explaining this very well, LOL.

I'm always amazed at the things you can pull out of my crazy prompts.

God bless and have a wonderful Sunday, my friend,
Marlicia
with God all things are possible

_________________Be patient with me. Like any good story, I'm a work in progress.

I think I know what you're driving at. My only argument against that is that I think you can get more out of a prompt if you let it carry your imagination... your talent, outward to new horizons instead of to a place you've been before you're not taking full advantage of it._________________We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.
Ernest Hemingway

I know you're right, Harry. I get caught between wanting to try new things and wanting to flesh out/finish old ones. The path of least resistance is not always the best one, but sometimes it's a job for me to get on the path at all. Still, you are right. I can't grow as a writer if I don't spread my wings a little.

Go bless and thanks, my friend._________________Be patient with me. Like any good story, I'm a work in progress.

Well, right or wrong Marlicia, it's for you to decide/// too many words of advice can often lead a talented person astray when she'd be better off left alone._________________We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.
Ernest Hemingway

Hey I don't know what the image was, but I loved Harry's little response to it. It's a little darker at the end than I thought it would be but it works well with the rest of the piece._________________It isn't the fame itself that makes you famous but what you do with that fame that does.